Surrender the Night (6 page)

A slick smile that reminded her of a hungry cat curved upon his lips. “Whatever are you always doing in the barn, Miss McGuire?”

“Brushing my horse, milking the cow, feeding the chickens,” she waved a hand through the air.
Tending to wounded British sailors
. “The usual chores.”

Prinney ambled up behind her as the other pigs grunted from the pigpen.

Plucking a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, Mr. Snyder held it to his nose. “You should leave this type of work to a stableboy or farmhand. A lady as lovely as yourself shouldn’t be getting her hands dirty.” He took her right hand in his and lifted it to his lips, but then halted at the sight of dirt smudged across her knuckles. He lowered her hand with a sigh.

She snatched it from him, restraining a smile. “We don’t have a stableboy, Mr. Snyder. Our last groomsman ran off and joined the British army.

“Indeed.” He sidestepped her. “What do you expect from a freed slave?” The sunlight shone over his perfectly styled auburn hair cut short to his collar and gleamed over his silk-embroidered waistcoat and spotless cravat. Strong features that could have been considered handsome tightened as he peered toward the barn. “Show me what interests you so much in the barn, miss. I’d like for us to get better acquainted.”

Alarm squeezed the breath from Rose’s lungs. Though she hated to touch the man—any man—she clutched his arm and swung him around. “You would find it dull, I assure you, Mr. Snyder. I know how you loathe getting dirty.”

Halting, he faced her, his blue eyes drifting to her cheek. “Unlike you, I see?” He grinned.

Rose lifted her hand to rub the dirt from her face, but Mr. Snyder grabbed it before she could.

“Is this blood? Are you hurt, Miss McGuire?” His urgent tone filled with concern as he pointed toward dark red stains on her palms. “And these blisters.” He pinched his lips. “What have you been doing?”

Pulling from his grip, Rose swallowed a burst of guilt at Mr. Snyder’s genuine regard. He had always been kind to her and her family, and she hated the lie that rolled off her tongue. “I … I … killed a chicken for dinner.”

“You?”

Prinney ambled about the hem of Rose’s gown and bumped into Mr. Snyder’s leg. Releasing her hand, he leaped backward and swatted the pig away with his handkerchief. “Filthy beast!”

Suppressing a giggle, Rose knelt and scratched Prinney between the ears then leaned down to whisper, “Good pig, Prinney. Now run along.”

A moan sounded from the barn. “That sounded like a man.” Swinging about, Mr. Snyder headed that way.

“A man?” Rose emitted a nervous chuckle. “What sort of lady do you think I am, sir?” She yanked on his arm, halting him. “Why, that was Liverpool, my cow. Can you not tell a moo from a man’s voice?” She offered him a sweet smile as she once again dragged him away from the barn. “Come into the house for some tea, Mr. Snyder. I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss my farm chores.”

“Indeed I did not, miss.” He dabbed at the perspiration on his brow with his handkerchief. “By the by, you should not be out here alone without at least one male servant to watch over you. Why, there are British soldiers afoot, as well as Indians and various unsavory sorts.”

Longing to remove her hand from his arm, Rose grimaced. In truth, she had felt safer before Mr. Snyder imposed his presence upon her. “I agree, sir. My uncle is searching for a new man of work as we speak.”

He gazed across the lush field toward the Jones Falls River. The rush of water accompanied the twitter of orioles flittering about the tree tops. “But I do so enjoy a glimpse of such natural beauty.”

Rose studied him as he perused the thirty acres of Drummond land that extended to the river on one side and was bordered by a line
of trees on the other. The twinkle in his eye bespoke an admiration and longing she had never seen when he looked at her. “Why, Mr. Snyder, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you came out here to see my land instead of me.” She feigned a grievous tone that ended up sounding giddy. Perhaps because the idea caused her no distress.

“Preposterous!” He snorted then smiled at her and patted her hand that still clutched his elbow. “No land could hold a candle to you, Miss McGuire.”

Rose eyed him with suspicion. Despite his charming facade, an insincerity lurked about him—in his mannerisms, his expressions, and even his compliments.

“You know my feelings, Miss McGuire. I would like to ask your uncle’s permission to court you.” He led her around the corner of the house to the front porch.

“As you have already informed me, Mr. Snyder. And though I am flattered, I must tell you I am not ready to court anyone.”

He stopped her at the door, set his tricorn and cane down on a rocking chair and took her hands in his. “It has been seven years since your parents’ deaths. Surely you are ready to start your own family.” The yearning in his eyes made her stomach fold in on itself. Retrieving her hands, she lowered her gaze. She didn’t want to cause him pain—had tried to dissuade his advances, yet still he pursued her. Perhaps she should agree to his courtship. The only other suitors who had come to call had been quickly turned aside by her hoydenish ways and her timidity around men. And with most of the men in town gone off to war—some never to return—Rose’s choices were limited. Mr. Snyder was handsome, successful, and kind, and her aunt spoke well of him.
An honorable councilman, my dear. You could do much worse
.

Then why did everything within Rose rebel at the thought of marrying him? “It’s the war, Mr. Snyder. I loathe the death and violence and cannot possibly think of courting during a time like this.”

He lifted her hand to kiss it then, no doubt remembering the dirt and blood, he released it again. “The war should remind us all of the brevity of life, Miss McGuire. And the need to take advantage of every opportunity.” The way he said the word
opportunity
, like a greedy merchant haggling over a purchase, gave her pause. She wished to be more than an opportunity to her would-be husband. In truth, she had
a feeling the favorable chance he spoke of had nothing to do with her at all.

And everything to do with her land.

Though her inheritance money had purchased this farm and provided a reasonable living for Rose and her aunt and uncle, when her uncle died—and he was already sixty—Rose would lose the farm unless she married.

And with no other prospects, Rose could not put Mr. Snyder off forever.

Sooner rather than later, she’d have to marry him or risk losing everything and throwing her aunt, Amelia, and Cora out onto the streets.

CHAPTER 4

S
plash. Splash
. A familiar yet strangely unfamiliar sound of moving water drifted through Alex’s mind, jarring him awake. The guttural and drawn-out moan of some kind of beast ground over his nerves. A cow, perhaps? Alex shook his head. Searing pain stabbed him and sped down his back. The malodorous smell of manure stung his nose and filled his lungs. A dream. A nightmare.
Cluck. Cluck
. Something pecked his arm. His neck. His cheek.

“What the deuces?” Alex raised his hand with difficulty to bat the offending varmint away. Squawking ensued as he rubbed his eyes in an attempt to pry them open.

The splash halted and footsteps approached. Despite the pounding in his head, he opened his eyes to the sight of an angel—albeit a rather disheveled, dirty angel—leaning over him. Golden curls that caught the sunlight in a glittering halo hung about her face. Blue eyes peered down at him with concern.

“Am I in heaven?” His voice came out cracked and dry.

“No, Mr. Reed. Far from it, I’m afraid.” Spreading the folds of her gown, she sat beside him. On the ground. Not on a stool, nor a chair. And he was in no bed. He grabbed a handful of hay with his other hand and felt dirt shove beneath his fingernails.

“Where am I?” Momentary terror struck him. He struggled to rise on his elbows, but he felt weak, as though he were pushing through molasses. And his head. Had it been replaced with a twenty-pound cannonball—a pain-filled cannonball?

“You should rest, Mr. Reed.” The angel poured water from a pitcher into a glass. “You’ve been quite ill.”

“Ill.” Alex glanced at the bloodstained bandage on his thigh and memories flooded him. Garrick. The sword fight. The firing of a pistol. He raised his eyes to the angel.
The rebel farm girl
.

“Yes, a fever.” She lifted the glass to his lips. “Drink this.”

Alex’s mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. He gulped the water hungrily until it dribbled down his chin. The liquid saturated his tongue and poured down his throat, cooling the parched places and giving him back his voice.

“Easy now.” She withdrew the cup and set it down on a small stool beside him.

“Thank you,” he managed before his arms began to wobble and he toppled back down onto a bed of hay that he found remarkably soft. The pain in his head dulled only to be replaced by the one in his leg. “My thigh.”

“I removed the bullet,” the angel said, as if she performed the task on a daily basis. “It is healing nicely.” “You … a
woman?”

“Yes, I assure you, sir, women are quite capable of such complicated procedures.” Her tone was caustic.

Caustic and biting—like an enemy. She
was
his enemy. And he was at her mercy. She leaned over him and ran the cloth over his forehead and cheeks. Loose curls sprang from her bun and fell across her delicate shoulders. She smelled of hay and fresh milk. Feminine curves filled out the folds of a plain blue cotton gown. Despite his muddled state, his body warmed at her gentle ministrations. “I meant no offense, miss … miss …”

“Miss Rose McGuire.” She sat back and eyed him quizzically. Her gaze drifted to his chest then quickly snapped away.

Alex glanced down at his open shirt sprinkled with blood. Memories of the sword fight flooded him: Garrick leveling his pistol at this ministering angel before him; her cowering on her knees;
Alex’s blade protruding from Garrick’s gut. Had Alex truly killed him? Or was it all a nightmare conjured up by his feverish mind? “Garrick?”

Pain skittered across her crisp blue eyes. “Your friend is dead.”

Remorse fell heavy on Alex. “He was no friend of mine.” He tried to rise again but his strength failed him. Should any British soldiers find Garrick’s body, there would be an inquiry and a court-martial, followed by a hanging—Alex’s hanging. He glanced over the barn. Bales of hay were stacked in a corner, farm tools hung on hooks against the far wall, a ladder led to a loft above, chickens strutted across the floor. No sight of Garrick’s body. “What did you do with him?”

“Amelia and I buried him four days ago.” Miss McGuire stood and brushed the hay and dirt from her skirt.

“Buried? Four days?” He struggled to lift himself once again. This time he managed to sit. “I must get back to my ship.”

Miss McGuire’s eyes widened, and she took a step back as if frightened of him. “I assure you, sir, I would love nothing more, but you are in no condition for a long march. Now, I insist you lie down and rest. You need to recover your strength.” She gazed at the open doors before facing him again, anger pushing the fear from her face. “The sooner you are out of here the better.” With that, she turned around and disappeared into the glaring light as if she had, indeed, come from heaven.

Alex’s head spun. Caged in on both sides by wooden railings, he appeared to be lying in some sort of animal stall. The snort of pigs sounded from outside. The stench of manure, aged wood, and horseflesh assailed him; and he fell back onto the hay. Movement caught his eye, and he turned his head to see a pair of giant brown eyes staring down at him from the stall beside his. The cow munched on green twigs and gazed at him with pity. If not for the angel who had just left, Alex would have thought he had died and gone to hell.

Or worse, America.